By evening they were ready; they downloaded maps and made some notes on them, set out their route and went to celebrate a job well done at McCarthy’s. Michelle was surprised that Isaac had chosen an unromantic bar for their next date, and invited his friends but she agreed to come anyway.
Bikie persuaded Wolanski to come along. Michelle arrived a lot later than the others putting Isaac through some serious turmoil. When she finally showed up she looked absolutely devastating with her hair done in a ponytail emphasizing a long neck, minimal makeup and lips just touched slightly with a lipstick. Her look was completed with a stylish biker jacket of soft leather. Isaac clutched at his heart melodramatically, but Bikie immediately outdid him by putting his hands over his fly and starting to slip slowly under the table, groaning and gasping. Wolanski spluttered with laughter. Michelle gave him a scornful look, folded her hand into a pistol, set it against Peter’s head and said “Boom!” Theatrically blowing away the smoke of the shot from the barrel, she glanced smugly at the scene and asked:
“I’m not sure, should I stay here?”
They all instantly came to life and started jabbering that of course she should.
“I’m mortally wounded, but I’m still alive.” Peter exclaimed solemnly.
“And no one has ever died from an orgasm!” Bikie added.
Bewildered by this torrent of compliments for Michelle, Isaac couldn’t think of anything to say. He kissed Michelle on both cheeks and moved her chair closer to him.
“I’ll sit beside you, I hope you don’t mind?” Michelle indicated to Peter.
“Sandrine would mind, only she’s not here,” Bikie responded merrily.
“Why not beside me?” asked Isaac.
“Because you’re punished!”
“For what, Michelle?”
“You invited me out… to a bar! You could have chosen a restaurant, a café, a park, anywhere at all. Who asks a girl on a date to a bar with a bunch of guys?”
“Um, well,” Isaac found nothing to say.
“Please forgive him, Michelle,” said Bikie, intervening for his friend. “I agree that he is a moron, an idiot, a blockhead and a fool with a chance having been someone’s screw-up. But then that’s his personality. I won’t be able to bear his sour face tomorrow; it takes almost twenty-four hours to get to Sardinia. And what’s more, today he saved my iron buddy’s life, so now I’m simply obliged to come to his rescue.”
Isaac was not even slightly amused by all these jokes, he felt despondent and miserable at his blunder. He had imagined Michelle as his girl and then bungled their first date so badly – in the fuss and bustle of packing he hadn’t even thought that it was a real date.
“Okay. Quits! Let’s say we’re even for the way you helped me that time in the bar.”
Michelle moved over to Isaac, who, delighted at his redemption, tried to put his arm round her waist.
“Oh-oh-oh! Don’t get too excited!” said Michelle, gently removing his arm. “Quits doesn’t mean you’re completely forgiven.”
“Oh come one, Michelle. You’re a real piece of work!” said Bikie. Turning to Isaac, he added. “I don’t envy you, old buddy. But I envy you just as well.”
“OK, then it’s a bar! I’ll have a Mojito!” Michelle kissed Isaac on the cheek and said affectionately: “Bring me that, please. And you Bikie, tell me about that iron buddy who was saved and why you are going to Sardinia.”
“Long Island for me, Mister Leroy” Bikie added solemnly, getting into a role of a social advocate.
“And me,” Peter put in.
The longer they sat talking, the less Michelle was mad at Isaac. Eventually he managed to put his arm round her waist and bring her closer to him. She didn’t resist. Isaac felt he was drowned in love for her. As soon as his panic was gone and the adrenalin from the fright left his blood, the alcohol took effect and Isaac suddenly got very drunk. As a matter of fact, they all, except Michelle, got totally zonked on the deceptively sweet, but very strong Long Islands, flinging out toasts about individual freedom and fine creative gals like Michelle Blanche!
Wolanski shelled out three grand in cash for the journey, for which Bikie promised to take him on as the frame drummer in his Banksy-Band, the rock group he was going to set up after the job was done in honor of the great English graffiti artist who “bombed” the streets of cities all around the world with his witty and acutely political paintings, and had never been caught.
“And if you refuse to be my frame drummer, you yourself will be drummed. If you don’t play rock I will clean your clock!” he added laconically, tripping over his tongue.
They talked a bit more about Banksy, his sense of humor and how distinctive his works were, about the way he managed to remain incognito, the cunning way he inserted his graffiti into the environment and how municipal boards, signs and peeling walls turned into pop masterpieces once one of his drawings appeared on them. The police had never once caught him at work, and they wondered why. Was it because he thought out thoroughly how to avoid getting caught, or was it plain, dumb luck?
“Anything worth doing is worth doing right?” Bikie quoted, “Hunter S. Thompson said that. You know what about? If not, I’ll tell you. You are not bikers, after all. In the 1960s that guy Hunter Thompson did something fucking awesome. Back then he had an old Jaguar, no bikes, and he had absolutely zilch connection with bikers. But he found them, I mean us, interesting. Normal folks have always associated us with freedom, rebellion and real adrenalin.”
“Those were the days of motorbike clubs. One ferocious name competed with the next: ‘Gipsy Jokers’, ‘Grim Reapers’, ‘Galloping Geese’, ‘Pissed-Off Bastards’, and so on. Brutal, leather clad dudes with tattoos all over them. They swilled beer and roared along highways but one group among them really stood out – the Hell’s Angels. They drove the law-abiding society crazy with terror. There were rumors that they smear their bike suits with shit to make leather stiffer and that they would rape all the women they came across. The newspapers constantly wrote rumors about them. Well, you know how low-grade journalists can both terrorize and confuse. The girls all squealed and waited for the Angels to drive round and start raping them.”
“So Thompson wondered what this national bogeyman was really like. He had a friend, a former Angel, some kind of a news reporter, a colleague basically. And through him Thompson got access to the bikers’ get-togethers. It was useless to tell the Angels ‘Hello there, I’m a journalist; I want to write about you’. But Thompson was no goodie-goodie, he was a man who broke the rules. He got an advance from a publisher for a book, bought a bike and spent a year riding with the Angels, recording the way they lived. He stuck with the pack, cruising round the cities, tearing along the highways, interacting like crazy, smoking pot, lying on lawns, listening to cops ranting about his rights and ending up in the slammer, he was beaten up with the bikers and he buried their gang bosses with them. In short, he plunged headfirst into the subject matter. And when he resurfaced, he published his book and it became a sensation. He didn’t just say how much beer a biker drank a day, he dug deep and came up with the causes of the confrontation between bikers and American society – he figured it was all to do with the post-war period.”
“By the way, those damned Angels totally flipped out from all that fuss, they started reading the news about themselves over their morning beer, and they learned how to extort money for interviews, photos or videos. So when they found out about the book, they demanded a share of the author’s fee and beat the shit out of Thompson but that was nothing new for him. It wasn’t the first or the last scandal in his life. Scandal drives the media. That was the way he lived,” concluded Bikie what wouldn’t be his last story that evening. “A new term was even coined in his honor – ‘gonzo journalism’ – he was a real heavy guy. A legend.”
“He also wrote the book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I’ve read it,” Michelle added with a smile. “You’re not the only one here who knows Hunter Thompson.”<
br />
“If you get bored with that blockhead Isaac, I’m always at your disposal,” Bikie added respectfully after a brief pause. “You’re a totally fucking cool chick!”
“You could have left out the swearing, but coming from you, Bikie, it doesn’t sound crude,” Michelle laughed, winking at him flirtatiously.
“You can’t have her!” said Isaac, coming awake and drawing Michelle closer against him.
A ray of light, feebly shining through the peep in the curtains, woke Isaac up. The night was just about to surrender. The clock showed five in the morning. He looked around – a beautiful, nicely furnished bedroom.
By his side, on the large soft bed, Michelle was sleeping. Isaac gently drew her close against him. She sighed but didn't wake up. Her warmth, her scent, she was so sexy! Isaac didn't remember how they ended up in one bed, but now it didn't matter.
Accidentally on purpose he moved, sliding his hand along her body – she was wearing some sort of a long thin T-shirt, tiny silky shorts and nothing more. Carefully, trying not to wake her up, Isaac began to kiss her neck, shoulders, her stomach, squeezing her closer against him, at the same time taking her clothes off. He caressed and kissed her more and more persistently, barely able to control himself.
Not opening her eyes, Michelle smiled, hugged Isaac, letting him cover them with the blanket and take off the rest of her clothes.
For the first time in many years Isaac was making love with somebody he really wanted. Spilling all the accumulated passion, he again and again kissed and caressed Michelle by hugging her, then without hesitation, climbing under her blanket. Sleepy Michelle obediently allowed him to do what he wanted, smiled without opening her eyes, reciprocating. The night was endless and there was no time to sleep.
Chapter 16
After the best night in his life Isaac arrived to Wolanski's villa as late as 12. Woke up Bikie and Wolanski, made a big cup of coffee for each of them and a huge helping of fried eggs.
Having woken up at night at Michelle's place, Isaac actually hadn't slept anymore. The liquor was wearing off, but the headache was getting worse. He felt like lying down but it was time to set out for Italy.
Peter suggested putting off their departure for a day. Isaac was for it of course. In the morning he read a text message on his phone sent by Michelle, with no words but three kisses and a little heart. He wanted to see her again. Just the two of them without his friends. The memories of the previous night were warm and inspiring. But iron-willed Bikie showed no sign at all that he’d been boozing heavily yesterday and insisted on going. He said they should not allow themselves to relax, that he was fine and ready to take the wheel. It wasn’t his first binge, wouldn’t be his last. Isaac really wanted to stay, but he had no arguments to object to Bikie, especially since he knew that the only reason he didn’t want to go was Michelle. He made a feeble attempt to argue, explaining what he had with Michelle definitely was a relationship, passion and, probably, love.
“All the more reason for us to go! Michelle won’t run away from you. As an expert on women’s hearts, I can tell you Michelle is spoiled with men’s attention so she’ll find an original little character like you especially interesting. You caught her eye the way you are, stay that way. The ones who jump through hoops for her probably don’t catch her.”
“But all the same…”
“But all the same, we’re going,” Bikie interrupted. “Trust me, you can’t think straight about her in any case. Get in the van and let’s go!”
They set out five minutes later. Isaac only remembered about Vicky as they were driving past the hospital. He felt ashamed for forgetting to visit her and for letting Michelle drive her completely out of his mind. The second reason bothered him less. Maybe Michelle really could help him forget his sudden crush for Vicky?
It was sunny and roasting already. While Bikie drove, Isaac tried to doze away and asked him not to put on the music. Even in silence, trying to fall asleep on the winding streets of Monaco was pointless. Eventually the van climbed to the very top where the local road merged into the highway. Bikie was feeling great, and after Isaac took a pill for his headache he started recovering too. There was no point in driving in silence any longer, and it was strange not to talk at the outset of a new journey with the road stretching out ahead. Both friends were filled with contradictory emotions from the anticipation of adventure and a good hunt to a vague, indefinite fear of failure.
Ventimiglia was the first Italian town on their route. Like all the less prosperous inhabitants of the border regions of France, Isaac often visited its large local market. The low, modern buildings of the resort town were modestly mute about the ancient Roman consuls and emperors who used to frequent the area. The local Roman amphitheater, of which only ruins were left, once had been a place where humble slaves amused the rich.
Things were shaping up much the same way now, Isaac thought. Now the Veggies were the slaves, only by virtue of their intellectual abilities, not their physical ones. Their OE had been sold to those who had plenty of money and didn’t need to donate their creativity. Isaac knew from history that the Roman Empire didn’t fall in a single day, first it split into two parts – Western and Eastern. The Eastern part, which was also called Byzantium, was destined to flourish. Maybe that was because they stopped regarding slaves as things and started seeing them as people? Isaac was still absorbed in his Ancient-Roman thoughts, pondering the idea of liberating the world from modern-day slavery, as they approached San Remo.
“Have you ever been to San Remo?” Bikie asked.
“Strangely enough, I haven’t, but I’ve heard it’s not as good as our resorts.”
“No resorts are as good as ours, but that’s no excuse for not going.”
“Then I’ll go see it one day.”
“I’ve been here, on my bike.”
“And where else have you been?” Isaac asked.
“No many places in a car. But on my bike I’ve been as far as Venice and Geneva, and Paris, naturally. The farthest points I went were Amsterdam and Copenhagen. In Copenhagen I lived for a whole week at the famous Freetown Christiania. And in Amsterdam I had such a wild spree in a coffee shop, I was afraid to go near my bike the day after. My head was spinning. And you probably know yourself; it’s the kind of city where you’re always looking for a reason to stay an extra day.”
“True. After our last trip, we definitely have to go back there. We could go on bike like you wanted and take a look at the windmills and tulips and all the other stuff.”
“I’ve never seen any old windmills, only the modern wind turbines. There are loads of them everywhere now, not just in Holland.”
In confirmation of these words a row of immensely high wind turbines appeared on their left, smoothly taking the air. Isaac counted eight of them, brand new ones with multiple propellers, fifty meters high, if not more. Once they all used to be white or grey, but these were painted all different colors. A pink one with black blades looked the zaniest. Where the row of turbines ended, an elevated road began with a tunnel following it. After the tunnel there was a filling station. Bikie reduced speed and got into the line on the far right.
“I need an Italian cappuccino,” he explained, “and bathroom.”
At the filling station the guys ordered an absolutely delicious doppio cappuccino, and then sat down on plastic chairs under a sunshade outside.
It was amazing, you only had to cross the Italian border and the cappuccino, even at a filling station, was totally different. Either the Italian milk tasted better, or the water was purer, but the brew was divinely delicious.
“Italian cappuccino and a panini. Not just a snack, it’s a party!” said Isaac, smiling with pleasure.
“I don’t like paninis,” said Bikie. “I’m more a pizza man. I once read that Italians prefer Margarita to any other kind because it’s impossible to spoil it.”
“Before that I used to take ‘four cheeses’ or seafood, I liked it with salami too, and I never
took a simple Margarita. What for, when there are such delicious kinds with all sorts of toppings and fancy doodads? But after I read that article, I ordered a Margarita. And I didn’t regret it. It really was delicious, and the cheapest kind as well. Since then I only eat Margarita, although I used to laugh at people who took it, I thought they were dummies.”
After they had their snack and cleared the table, the guys moved on. Anyone driving along this autostrada for the first time must surely think it the most beautiful high speed-road in the world. On the right side the sea and endless little Italian towns; on the left mountains buried in greenery.
Isaac was feeling much better. Every kilometer the van dived into a new tunnel and shot back out into the sun again. A dark stretch and a bright stretch. After the party at Wolanski’s he had begun a bright stretch, and he wanted it to be a long one.
“Driving into a tunnel is like dying, and the heavenly light at the end is like being reborn into a new life,” he said pensively.
Isaac believed in God, but not in a specific God; he regarded himself as agnostic and didn’t believe in Christ, Allah or Buddha, but he served the commandments: thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, and thou shalt not commit evil. He liked the idea of karma too, it was like a shield over your head. Good deeds strengthened it, and villains’ karma was rotten, it leaked. Too bad, though, this leakage was not immediate, but sometime in the future.
It was probably karma that had rescued him when he went to download his OE. It had saved him, or the angels had, the words made no difference. He would have become a Veggie a long time ago, if not for Elvis’s fortunate appearance. And then there would never have been Michelle, or Bikie, or Peter, or the long-awaited patent in his life. He felt the urge to share these thoughts with Bikie.
“You know, I’ve thought about God lots of times. My parents were killed, Vicky is sick. But they were very good people, and there was nothing to punish them for. I can’t say I feel glad about ordeals like that. I’m grateful for what he’s given me, but he’s taken away plenty of things too.”
Einsteiner Page 15